It is three days until Christmas. CHRISTMAS. There is just over a week left in 2012.

This has taken me somewhat by suprise (fear not: I am dealing with it adequately. Yesterday I had two salted caramel ice creams). I feel like the holiday season came up while I was in the middle of telling a story (because, really, what else is a blog other than someone taking waaaay too long to get to the point?)

I still have loads to share with you about our trips from this past year, but then – BAM – Christmas music instantly started playing and there was tinsel everywhere.

And I sit here thinking, “Excuuuuuse me, Holiday Season 2012, but I was SAYING SOMETHING MARGINALLY IMPORTANT.” Sheesh.

Truth be told, it sounds rather dirty. Like, “Did you hear about Janine? She caught skinflint while riding on the subway.” Or, “I’ve heard he’s done a lot of things in the past that he’s not proud of. Like, you know … skinflint.” Or, “Be sure to scrub between your genitals and your leg.”

I realize I forgot to use “skinflint” in that last sentence. But I left it there, because it’s just sound advice.

Walking down a crowded street on a rainy night in Dublin, we heard the distinct sounds of people watching an outdoor movie.

I can’t specifically say what the noises were – it’s strange how despite the thousands of films in existence, and the myriad of soundtracks and dialogues and moods expressed therein, they all start to sound alike when played through outdoor speakers.

It doesn’t matter if you are watching The Princess Bride or The Exorcist (for my sake, I hope it is the former.) 90% of them have scratchy ambient sound, a bit of heavy-handed dialogue, and a soundtrack by John Williams.

It’s an immensely popular restaurant in Dublin, and they specialize in fried chicken – as well as grilled and roasted – but fried is their signature, and the name of the restaurant is a play on its apparently addictive qualities.

They want you to describe the birds they cook as being like crack. And, frankly, that’s not how I would put it.

Despite my family’s European roots, I grew up on fried chicken. It wasn’t that we ate it all that often, and it was rarely store bought (though occasionally, on days when my mother had class, or my grandparents had to be driven to doctor’s appointments, or when no one could be bothered, it was). My mom would while away an afternoon dredging and battering chicken, and gingerly placing it into a cast-iron pot filled with oil.

The stove top would bubble and foam and splatter, eventually yielding gorgeous, golden-brown pieces of chicken.

Please excuse me while I go freak out. Christmas is in 11 days. Hanukkah is basically over. To everyone in my life: let’s just pretend that my love is gift enough, okay? It’s like an Amazon gift card for your heart or something like that.

Are you tired of hearing about Ireland? Truth be told, I thought I’d be done by now. But damn, a lot happened in Ireland. (I realize I could be referring to both our trip, and to the country’s rich history. Since both would be accurate statements, I am leaving that sentence intentionally vague). Every time I think I’m ready to move on to Milwaukee or Portsmouth, I remember some detail I’ve forgotten to write about.

Like, you know, the entire city of Dublin.

That seems like a pretty big omission, wouldn’t you say? You’d think I’d have noticed something like that. It’s like that time in high school that I pulled on jeans from the day before, and went to TWO DIFFERENT class periods before realizing that there was a dirty pair of underwear stuck in my pant leg.